ABBYNEELA IS BEING READONLY FOR SOME DAMN REASON SO...
The superintendant was a short, balding man with a bad leg and an unfortunate accent in that, for the life of her, Abby could not understand a single sentence he uttered.
"A mouse," she said, in painfully slow English, "in the kitchen. A dead one."
The little man peered at her.
"Mowwwwse," he said, "yez, mowwwse."
"In the kitchen."
"Kitch-en."
"Yes. Behind the stove. I... I can't remove--can't get... Behind the stove."
He nodded, chewing on a stubby fingernail.
"Yes, yes, yes, yes," he sang to himself, "I help."
Abby threw up her hands as the strange man tottered towards the counter, stooping on arthritic knees to get at the stove. She watched as he opened the oven, sticking his entire head in like the wicked witch in the gingerbread house.
Beside her, Neela mumbled something to herself, ticking off congugations on her fingers. Abby watched as she stumbled over her tenses in what sounded like Italian and wondered when the young woman would run out of languages to try. It amazed her, the font of knowledge that sprung forth from her friend, though Neela, with her mulit-linquistic skills, had gotten about as far in conversation with the super as Abby had, trying first French and then a few impossibly broken words in German.
Apparently, as the superintentant stumped his way to the bathroom, suspicious-looking plastic bag in hand, it had all been to no avail.
"I haff get heem," he said triumphantly, moving with astonishing speed for such a gimpy fellow, holding the bag aloft, "I haff get heem."
"Where are you going?" Abby yelled after him as he shut the bathroom door, grinning a crack-toothed grin at her before it slammed closed, "what--"
She was cut off by the sound of the toilet, and an ominous silence descended upon the apartment.
The super emerged, hands empty.
"I flash heeem!" he exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear, "gone, gone, gone."
The two women exchanged a look and two sets of eyes, one dark and one light, locked onto the toilet bowl, visible from behind the elated superintendant. They watched in horror as a torrent of water spilled over the edge with a horrendous, almost prehistoric-sounding belch.
"Son of a bitch," Abby murmured, shaking her head in awe, "son of a bitch."
* * *
Neela looked serious in her mask and gloves, goggles cupping her eyebrows.
"Give me the tongs," she said flatly.
"Someone liked their surgical rotation," Abby joked.
They were crouched by the toilet like a prayer group, array of hodgepodge tools heaped on the floor beside them.
"The tongs please," Neela repeated, holding out her hand.
"Are you sure about this?"
"You'd rather I use the spatula?"
Abby considered.
"Yeah, you're right," she said, handing over the metal pincers, "at least I can autoclave these."
Neela narrowed her eyes, plunging her tonged hand into the water. She scrabbled around, inching closer and closer to the bowl, grunting with the effort.
"Can you feel anything?" Abby asked.
"Almost."
Her arm dissapeared further into the watery depths.
"How about the whisk?" Abby asked, "or maybe this fondue fork?"
She was met with silence.
"Or the tea strainer," she continued, "that might be good."
"Abby?"
"...Yes..."
"I'm... I think I'm stuck."
"What?"
"My arm. It's... It's stuck."
Abby was on her feet in a flash.
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah, I think so."
Neela tugged, pulling backwards.
"Just... Relax your muscles," Abby coached, "ease it out..."
Neela pulled harder. Nothing. She was beginning to sweat, eyes wild.
"Get me out of here!" she screamed, "please, just get me out!"
Abby's hand went into the water, closing over Neela's forearm.
"Calm down," she said softly, mouth close to Neela's ear," just... Re-lax and..."
She inched her fingers towards Neela's wrist and gave a gentle tug.
The arm came forward, Neela with it, and they fell slightly backwards, Neela half in Abby's lap. They stayed like that a moment, Abby's wet hand just above Neela's stomach, as though frozen.
Before either of them could speak, the toilet, of it's own accord, gave a terrifying 'glurp.' The sound of sucking water filled the room, and the two women collapsed into nervous laughter, slumping against one another.
"It's night of the living toilets," Abby said, between gasps, "night of the living goddamn toilets."
Neela nodded in answer, the sensation of Abby's palm against her bellybutton making her slightly lightheaded, for reasons she couldn't quite explain.
"It sure is," she said, and, daring herself, leaned back ever so slightly more, "it sure is."